The sky escapes every day

Everyone is running. Men and women, lovers, the happy, the miserable, the hesitant—they are all running. They quicken their pace, never looking back. I am a worn wooden pew in a Chicago church, so isolated, that I have been numbed by the weight of their stories. I feel them. I watch with the pain and anguish of a seeker their futile escape from the grasp of God, a grasp that neither lets go nor misses, that neither neglects nor delays nor grows weary. I am the seventh worn wooden book in a sorrowful church. I will tell you the stories of people you do not know, people you do not want to know, but who will invade you, and you will be ruled by them. Everyone is running. Men and women, lovers, they are fleeing. The happy, the miserable, the hesitant. They are all running. They quicken their pace and never look back. I am a worn wooden pew in a cold, isolated church, weary from the weight of their stories. I have become one with them. I watch with anguish and regret their futile attempts to escape the grasp of Almighty God, who never lets go, never errs, never neglects, never postpones, and never sleeps. Let me tell you the stories of those who tirelessly try to escape themselves but fail. I am a worn wooden pew sitting in a silent church. I will tell you the stories of people you do not know, people you do not want to know, but they will invade you, and you will find no escape from their grasp.